Peach Torte
by theporchlife
Summary: Peach torte means beginnings. Inspired by a LJ Writer's Block question: When times are tough or you’re feeling down, what’s the one food you can count on to make you feel better?


He remembered the first time he had it, a peace offering in the form of a pie. Or rather, as Taylor constantly reminded him, a torte, a peach torte. She had made it for him as a "thank you for pretending to be my lover so I can divorce my French husband" present, as a fresh start between them. And it had been a new beginning, both between them and for him alone.

To Ryan, peach torte represented beginnings. Peach torte meant "I'm sorry." Peach torte said "happy birthday" or "happy anniversary" or "I'm going to completely blow your mind later." And now peach torte said "welcome to the family, we're a little crazy and this whole thing is more than a little nuts, but welcome home."

So Ryan watched silently as Taylor carefully cut him and her and now Max pieces, the crust flaking delicately away from the edge of her knife. He watched as she the pieces before him and Max before taking her slice and sitting in her chair. He watched as she watched Max take his first bite - expectant, hopeful and just a little bit worried. Watched as Max chewed, quiet and thoughtful and more than a little like a young Ryan Atwood, before he gave a thin smile and nod in Taylor's direction and took another bite. Watched Taylor's face as it changed to relief and pride and burgeoning affection for the boy Ryan had sprung on her as the newest member of their freshly started family.

He watched all this occur, took in every detail of Max's official, "he's got to have my peach torte," initiation into the Atwood-Townsend family, before taking his first bite and smiling at Taylor. She smiled back, wide and strong, already adapting and changing and planning their lives to include Max even though he had only arrived the day before.

She had been surprised to see him with the teenage boy trailing silently behind him but she hadn't questioned it, just cleaned up the guest room and added more to their order of Chinese food. She hadn't treated Max with pity or fear, knew after all their years together to trust Ryan's instincts, but instead she treated him in much the same way she treated Ryan - protective "I know what's best for you" bullying, non-stop chatter and a bright quick smile.

"So you like it?" she asked, the hopeful smile firmly in place. "For awhile it was the only thing I knew how to make - I learned the recipe in France. I was marr-"

"Taylor…"

"Right. So you like it?"

"Yeah, it's good."

"Good. Like I said, I learned it in France. Do you speak any French? It is a beautiful language, really expressive…"

And she was off, chattering away about France and French and French philosophers before making a sudden turn into one of the latest manga releases. Ryan and Max continued to eat, an occasional nod or grunt all the reply Taylor got, not that she minded, she had married at Atwood after all and they were not really known for their conversational skills. They finished their slices of torte that way, Taylor talking and the boys eating, and Taylor's chatter followed them through clearing the table and filling the dishwasher and then up the stairs to bed, Max settling into the guest room, "his room" as Taylor called it that night, and Ryan and Taylor heading for their own room.

It was later, closer to midnight than 11, as Taylor sat in bed translating a French book with Ryan lying beside her reading, that he decided to get up and have another slice of torte. So he kissed her gently on the cheek and mumbled that he would be right back, not getting a reply which meant Taylor was heavily involved in the world of French verbs and nouns, before rolling out of bed and padding downstairs.

The light was on in the kitchen and Ryan stopped in the doorway and watched Max as he sat barefoot at the kitchen table, a slice of torte before him. Max started slightly when Ryan walked in, an almost guilty expression on his face as he looked down at his slice. Ryan knew he thought he was in trouble, knew that he wasn't comfortable in their house, "wasn't comfortable yet" as Taylor would probably say with an emphasis on the yet, so he smiled and nodded before grabbing a slice of the torte for himself.

"Sorry, I was hungry, I should have asked first but I thought maybe you two were asleep so I just-"

"It's fine - eat whatever you want, you're welcome to any of it."

"It's good pie."

"Yeah, it is, just don't let Taylor hear you call it a pie," he laughed, taking another bite out of his slice.

"Right. She's, well, she's nice. A little weird but nice."

"Yeah."

Ryan had never been sure of how Sandy had done it, how he had opened his home and family and heart so completely to a boy he got out of juvie. In that moment, however, as he sat in silence with a troubled boy from a troubled home eating the peach torte his wife had baked for them, he knew that it didn't matter how Sandy had done it but that he did do it. So he made a promise, silent and only to himself, that he would open himself, his home and his family to the young man beside him.

Peach torte was friendly and familiar and comforting to Ryan. Peach torte meant "you're home and I love you." Peach torte said "welcome to the family." Peach torte was fresh starts and new beginnings.


End file.
